What is this thing we call ‘pop music’? Is it Eddie Cochran’s quiff and Paul McCartney’s violin bass? Or is it Adam Ant’s make-up and Prince’s stiletto boots? Perhaps it’s Lee Hazlewood’s moustache and Kate Bush dressed as a lion; or David Byrne in a big suit and Nicky Wire in a leopard skin coat.
I am sure it’s all of these. And if you believe the same, I have some bad news for you: it’s over. Music that is ‘popular’ continues (and always will), but whatever it was that began with Elvis almost certainly ended when Michael Jackson died.
Really? There’s still a pop chart – and look at the fuss and bother about One Direction. Surely they are the modern indicators of pop’s beating heart? Actually no, they’re not.
The pop chart has so little meaning now, that no mainstream TV channels bother to recount it; and One Direction are a brand, carefully sculpted to resonate with (mostly female) teenagers. They’re not a ‘pop group’ because their music is largely immaterial.
However, to declare pop music dead, there must be something more profoundly amiss than the lack of Top Of The Pops and a fabricated act conquering the world. And there is.
Commercial music hasn’t ceased, but the drama, humour, eccentricity and inventiveness – what we might call the ‘mystery’ of pop – has entirely evaporated.
If we zipped back to 1982, we’d find a group in an unstoppable upward trajectory. They have a handsome ex-punk on drums, a black bassist and hunky blonde guitarist. More importantly, they are fronted by a gay man in a smock, who looks a lot like a woman. Within a few months of the release of their first single ‘White Boys’, Culture Club were a global phenomenon. Boy George was adored by grandmothers, pre-pubescents and clubbers alike. He was a proper pop star. What’s more, the music was as important as the image – and the band wrote and played their hits. From ‘Do You Really Want To Hurt Me?’ to ‘Church Of The Poison Mind’, these massively successful, and timelessly wonderful records, were part of a perfectly complete package. The band looked glamorous and otherworldly, and the songs made our hearts beat faster. We couldn’t be Culture Club, (nor Joy Division or Madonna) but we could love them. That has always been the point of pop music.
Unfortunately, anybody of the right age, with the right haircut, could be One Direction.
I don’t want to make this an assassination of that particular boyband, though. They handle their luck very well, will almost certainly never have to work again, and have made life considerably more exciting for their followers. I’m pleased for them; nevertheless they are a ‘post-pop’ event, not a pop group.
Where there is effect, there is cause. So what has brought us to this terminus? To blame Simon Cowell, which many do, is naive and glib. For Cowell to kill pop music, would require him to be close to its heart. That was never the case. Simon always wanted to be an executive. His ambitions were management and wealth, not cultural impact and creativity. Rather than being the antithesis of Tony Wilson, he was actually playing a different game entirely. His first big signing was Robson & Jerome. Clearly he wasn’t on a mission to uncover the new Beatles, Sex Pistols or even Culture Club. He wanted something easy, glib and obvious.
Ah! Obviousness. Now we’re getting close. For pop’s mystery to thrive, the element of surprise is essential. We’d never have guessed we wanted Boy George, Shaun Ryder or Siouxsie Sioux until they sprang from the cultural closet and knocked us to the ground. The Wanted, Little Mix and Bruno Mars, on the other hand, have been forced so neatly through a pre-clipped template, they couldn’t possibly make us jump. Indeed, they are so predictable, we saw them on the horizon a long time before they arrived.
In just the same way as a games platform or mobile telephone, dependably delivers a repeatable experience, so music that is popular slots neatly into a lifestyle gap. So little is asked of it, or expected, that it is merely another service on a screen.
The beauty of pop music was its continual evolution. As soon as complacency threatened, something landed to shake the kaleidoscope. Elvis and Cliff gave way to The Beatles and The Stones, gave way to hard and progressive rock, gave way to the new wave, gave way to futurism, gave way to acid house and hip-hop. In the post-pop era, nobody watches hungrily for that arrival. Contemporary stardom springs from the ability to provide the comfortable, the apparent, the obvious. Why else does Michael Buble sell out the 02 Arena? No alarms and no surprises please.
However much we play with its legacy, or poke at its corpse; and however much Rizzle Kicks re-sing EMF’s ‘Unbelievable’; pop music is dead. Wonder, mystery and intrigue have been replaced with baseline entertainment.
Still, wasn’t it wonderful while it lasted?
I am sure it’s all of these. And if you believe the same, I have some bad news for you: it’s over. Music that is ‘popular’ continues (and always will), but whatever it was that began with Elvis almost certainly ended when Michael Jackson died.
Really? There’s still a pop chart – and look at the fuss and bother about One Direction. Surely they are the modern indicators of pop’s beating heart? Actually no, they’re not.
The pop chart has so little meaning now, that no mainstream TV channels bother to recount it; and One Direction are a brand, carefully sculpted to resonate with (mostly female) teenagers. They’re not a ‘pop group’ because their music is largely immaterial.
However, to declare pop music dead, there must be something more profoundly amiss than the lack of Top Of The Pops and a fabricated act conquering the world. And there is.
Commercial music hasn’t ceased, but the drama, humour, eccentricity and inventiveness – what we might call the ‘mystery’ of pop – has entirely evaporated.
If we zipped back to 1982, we’d find a group in an unstoppable upward trajectory. They have a handsome ex-punk on drums, a black bassist and hunky blonde guitarist. More importantly, they are fronted by a gay man in a smock, who looks a lot like a woman. Within a few months of the release of their first single ‘White Boys’, Culture Club were a global phenomenon. Boy George was adored by grandmothers, pre-pubescents and clubbers alike. He was a proper pop star. What’s more, the music was as important as the image – and the band wrote and played their hits. From ‘Do You Really Want To Hurt Me?’ to ‘Church Of The Poison Mind’, these massively successful, and timelessly wonderful records, were part of a perfectly complete package. The band looked glamorous and otherworldly, and the songs made our hearts beat faster. We couldn’t be Culture Club, (nor Joy Division or Madonna) but we could love them. That has always been the point of pop music.
Unfortunately, anybody of the right age, with the right haircut, could be One Direction.
I don’t want to make this an assassination of that particular boyband, though. They handle their luck very well, will almost certainly never have to work again, and have made life considerably more exciting for their followers. I’m pleased for them; nevertheless they are a ‘post-pop’ event, not a pop group.
Where there is effect, there is cause. So what has brought us to this terminus? To blame Simon Cowell, which many do, is naive and glib. For Cowell to kill pop music, would require him to be close to its heart. That was never the case. Simon always wanted to be an executive. His ambitions were management and wealth, not cultural impact and creativity. Rather than being the antithesis of Tony Wilson, he was actually playing a different game entirely. His first big signing was Robson & Jerome. Clearly he wasn’t on a mission to uncover the new Beatles, Sex Pistols or even Culture Club. He wanted something easy, glib and obvious.
Ah! Obviousness. Now we’re getting close. For pop’s mystery to thrive, the element of surprise is essential. We’d never have guessed we wanted Boy George, Shaun Ryder or Siouxsie Sioux until they sprang from the cultural closet and knocked us to the ground. The Wanted, Little Mix and Bruno Mars, on the other hand, have been forced so neatly through a pre-clipped template, they couldn’t possibly make us jump. Indeed, they are so predictable, we saw them on the horizon a long time before they arrived.
In just the same way as a games platform or mobile telephone, dependably delivers a repeatable experience, so music that is popular slots neatly into a lifestyle gap. So little is asked of it, or expected, that it is merely another service on a screen.
The beauty of pop music was its continual evolution. As soon as complacency threatened, something landed to shake the kaleidoscope. Elvis and Cliff gave way to The Beatles and The Stones, gave way to hard and progressive rock, gave way to the new wave, gave way to futurism, gave way to acid house and hip-hop. In the post-pop era, nobody watches hungrily for that arrival. Contemporary stardom springs from the ability to provide the comfortable, the apparent, the obvious. Why else does Michael Buble sell out the 02 Arena? No alarms and no surprises please.
However much we play with its legacy, or poke at its corpse; and however much Rizzle Kicks re-sing EMF’s ‘Unbelievable’; pop music is dead. Wonder, mystery and intrigue have been replaced with baseline entertainment.
Still, wasn’t it wonderful while it lasted?
